Wild Days

In the silence of the woods

In the still of the trees

In the dark of a winter’s night on a faraway hill

You can still hear the breath of the man laying low

In the mist of the bush, where the grey ghost-gums stand

See the smoke rising high

From the burning hotel

If you watch on the plains when the sun drifts in low

You can still see the dust kicked up the ride

In the mist of the bush, where the grey ghost-gums stand

The crack of the whip

The crash of the gun

There’s a riverbank haunted and a valley accursed

And a sigh that still echoes if you quiet your mind

In the mist of the bush, where the grey ghost-gums stand